


The Artist and The Viking

by Kai_nimura



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kai_nimura/pseuds/Kai_nimura
Summary: This Story explains the artwork entitled 'The Room You Will Never See' and the meaning behind the Cursed Crystal Wendigos : Chase, James, Blaze, and Axel. and the Cursed Bunny Fortuna. at Anthrocon 2019.





	The Artist and The Viking

Stark white walls with a stark white ceiling to match, where finally seeing their end.

Cobalt, indigo, navy, denim, azure, with lapis all carefully and chaotically blended with ebony, midnight, obsidian, and onyx. These colors graced the ceiling, blended in a slightly circular pattern, around where a white spot in the middle that was not perfectly circular existed.

Around that spot circling it, long and uneven lines in the same white existed. With scattered white dots carefully placed in all of the chaos.

On top of the white, a glowing pigment had been painted on. In daylight the white would look like white, but when the lights went out and the room grew dark, the glow was an ethereal blue, bright and calming.

It was eternity in the cosmos.

The four walls where all beginning their own transformations, while furniture had been pushed to the center of the room. After the walls, the furniture would be next.

The Viking stood there, taking a step back from his work on the walls, which was at this point in time, helping apply base colors to the walls, and the painter’s tape to make sure the finished ceiling wouldn't be touched by the colors going on the walls.

The Viking. Well, to be honest he wasn’t a real Viking, from the proper time period and location. But a far more modern one.

Genetics made him an actual descendant of Nordic Vikings. With hair that shifted colors from blonde to a shade of red oxide, even a bit deeper then that, depending on weather and environment. Eyes the color of blue grey storm clouds. The height and build to match. If a movie ever required an actual Viking, he would fit the bill. Complete with beard, and a hairstyle to match as best as it could, within his employment guidelines of course.

His build and stature where products of being Military, which allowed him to keep up such an intimidating appearance. His training made him focused and hyper-aware of things around him. He could notice details that most would overlook.

One could not expect any less from a Green Beret. His life was chaos, but it was all that he knew.

But this? This scene before him was new, he loathed the white walls of his bedroom, in a custom apartment that he shared with three others. Two more Green Berets, and a Force Recon Marine.

We’ll call them; The Samurai, The Spartan, and Force Recon. Mostly because the Marine’s excuse as to why he did things was ‘Force Recon, motherfucker.’ Even though we could call him Cat Dad and that would suit him as well, given the fact he has a cat, whom he claims is his son. Together these four saw themselves as warriors, closer to some aspects of Spartans, including the phrase ‘Molan Labe’. But never the less, they where a team, brothers.

At this moment, these details do not come into play. Not just yet.

Now then, The Viking had tried so many times to hide those walls, those blank white walls that seemed all encompassing and overwhelming. So many artists had come and gone, their ideas lacked something. Their plans and ideas for his room always fell short of what he wanted.

That was the interesting part of all of this. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he knew what he didn’t want.

It took courage for him to talk to The Artist, they where not local to where he lived. How they met however, isn’t the point of this story. The art is.

So, there he stood looking up at the ceiling, some paint on his hands and jeans, perhaps a bit on his shirt from one of the paint can lids attempting escape from his hands.

Storm Blue-grey eyes lowered to the The Artist in the room, carefully dry brush blending the colors together. He watched how her hands held the brush, how it seemed as if she knew some sort of magic. Magic that allowed her to know exactly how to blend the paint together seamlessly. All four walls where getting various shades of blue-grey to lighter blue tones painted on, but that was just the base coats, the canvas that the art would be created upon.

With hair cut short in a style reminisce of a certain Korean boy pop group, that had become internationally famous. Colored black with an undertone of deep purple within it. The genetics of The Artist where quite interesting, but the Native American genetics controlled much of her appearance. Including allowing this Artist to appear years younger then their actual age.

A light and slender frame, making them look far more delicate then they are. She turned around and looked at him, having noticed the silence, and felt his eyes at the back of her head.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” He quickly looked away from her back up at the ceiling. “It’s just impressive.”

Dark brown eyes looked upwards, “I guess...” Self doubt was there, The Artist didn’t think much of their skills. “I just hope when all of this is completed, you won’t be disappointed in me.”

“Could never be disappointed in you, you are far more talented then you realize.” His tone was calm, and had hints of something else in it. More then simple admiration towards an artist. His tone was directed at this Artist, solely. "It's late now, you should get some sleep. I'll be out on one of the couches." With that he left.

The Artist watched him leave the room, sleep came easy that night, but it was not without it's troubles.

A dream? Yelling, confusion, arguing. Something was going wrong. Gun fire and smoke. Everything moved fast and chaotic. The Artist didn't understand what was happening, everything was jumbled up and time felt like it mixed together and events where out of place.

Until... an explosion.

Then four became two.

Then running and gunfire, more gunfire and yelling.

Then Two became one.

Two made it on board a helicopter, one was breathing final breathes, the other in shock and blacking out, still breathing.

The Artist awoke in a panic, dazed. The dream fading quickly but the anxiety from it growing. "Please be ok." Footsteps down a hallway, passing bedrooms with sleeping soldiers inside.

"You're awake."

The Artist was startled by The Viking, he wasn't asleep. Camped out on one of the sofas reading a book. Sleep never came easy, to him, or his friends. Night terrors, they had seen and lived through so much.

"Yea, nightmare." The Artist paused."Not as bad as the ones you have, I bet."

He chuckled and stood up, 6 feet and 260 lbs of muscle and military training. "Does not make yours any less terrifying."

"You..aren't going to leave me, are you?"

"What?" 

"Just, don't die."

"What brought this on?"

"Just tell me you aren't going to die ok?"

With that he froze, it wasn't a promise he could keep. His job, their job. It was always a risk. All he could do was pull this small, now crying Artist into his arms and hold on to them until the crying stopped. "You need sleep."

The Viking took them back, and unable to remove The Artists hands from his shirt, found sleep with them.

As the progress on the room went on, the nightmares got worse. 

Until...

"It's finished..." The Artist looked around the finished room. Blue, bronze, black, abstract yet calming. Each wall was different. The furniture and decor was painted as well. It finally suited him. 

"It's amazing." The Viking looked over at The Artist, his smile. He was in love.

However, reality began to slip and fade away, The Artist was confused as the room changed around them.

beep beep beep beep beep

A hospital room. A man laying on a bed, hooked up to machines helping him breathe. Bandages, tubes, wires...kept him alive.

Three others who where there yet not, waiting and watching. Sorrow on their faces.

A crying mother, an indifferent step father, doctors and nurses. They where nothing more then blurry figures.

beep beep

It stopped. The beeping stopped, the sound of a flat line. The Artist woke up.

Home, they where home. They woke up in tears, hands shaking and heart racing. 

"Sweetie?" A Badass Brit calmed The Artist down. "What's wrong?"

"Just a nightmare. Have you heard from the boys?"

"No...I'm worried about them." She, this Badass Brit, a very dangerous woman. As described by her niece. She was an Army veteran. Military Police, a gunner. The girlfriend of The Artist. Polyamoury exists, and for some it works.

The Badass Brit held not only The Artist's heart, but The Spartan's and The Samurai's as well. As for The Artist, aside from The Badass Brit, and their Husbeast, they had The Viking and The Samurai.

Force Recon wasn't into that, his cat son came first. Everything was for his cat. Tank was an amazing cat, who could do no wrong in his father's eyes.

Even if -no wrong- included riding a Romba and attacking The Samurai at every given moment. 

It had been awhile, since they had heard from the boys. It was uncommon for them to be silent for this long. 

When news came though, it wasn't good. It resulted in crying and begging for reality to not be real. For dead men to not be dead. In good bye love letters, and personal belongings. 

A heartbroken Artist, carefully creating a small room. A promise kept. It was what he wanted, he wanted this Artist to paint his room. He wanted to have their art on his walls. 

So what could they do? The Artist could do nothing more, they believed. Then to simply create a room that he would never see. To pour their love into it, in memory of what didn't have a chance to exist.

"For you, The Room You Will Never See. My Viking. I miss you so much."

However, reality is often far stranger then fiction and fantasy. Those lines blur far more often then not.

The Artist sat on a floor, while they cried and worked on the small room. Working so hard to complete art for an art show. A dragon coated in Black 3.0, A Bunny that caused nightmares, and four heads in creation.

'Don't cry' A voice spoke in clicks and whistles, unheard and unseen by many. But known by The Artist very closely.

"I miss them so much."

A clicking laugh, 'soon.'

Four men and a Badass Brit talking at a table, the Badass Brit wouldn't remember what was said. But one by one they got up and left. To the Badass Brit they said goodbye, and walked away into uncertainty.

What they found was a forest on the other side. Old and damp, the smell of rot and decay in the air. Cold and foggy. They thought they where in hell.

Of course they where in Hell, in life they had taken lives. They where soldiers it was part of their job. However, this wasn't hell. For existence was not so cut and dry as some would believe.

Because everyone is correct and incorrect about life and dying. About the afterlife and existence. But that involves answers that everyone must discover on their own. 

They heard branches breaking, and saw a thing, a creature over 9 feet tall, antlers coated in string and cobwebs, feathers and items tied to them. A smell of old blood, decay and rot, hoofed feet and bones sticking out from stretched thin flesh and fur. Matted and grotesque. 

The bone bleached white skull of a deer, larger then most, closer to an elk. Instead of eyes, swirling darkness of the abyss, that drew you in and made you understand what oblivion really was. Teeth fit the skull type, but with sharper points in just the right places to suit this beast's needs. A tongue long and dark, deep red to black and dripping black sludge. This beast had a name.

Wendigo

A clawed bone-like hand raised and out stretched, and with a horrible attempt at a wave. This abomination spoke, a higher pitched voice that cracked and clicked. "HI"

The four men turned to run stopped in their tracks by a wolf. White fur, and huge larger then the dire wolves that used to exist, eyes that glowed an ethereal red, teeth bared and snarling. "Don't run dearie." A voice that held a thick Irish accent.

And then, a cat. A small mother cat.

Force Recon stared at that cat, he knew that cat. "Tank's mom?" He began to talk to the cat, apologizing for his own death, he had acquired Tank while out on a mission. A building had fallen down on them. They survived but stayed where they where. In the darkness of the night he heard the sound of a kitten. He discovered under some rubble a mother cat who had died, alongside her new born kittens. Minus one. This man,, this Force Recon Marine, loved cats so much. So he took the kitten, and even argued with The Viking about it. But in the end, the kitten survived. That kitten was Tank, Tank who loved t-shirts and their daddy so much. Tank who enjoyed putting their favorite toy in their waterfall water dish and giving the toy to Force Recon... because 'it must be wet'. Tank who loved sitting in The Viking lap and being read stories aloud by The Viking. Tank who slept cuddled up next to The Spartan when thunderstorms hit, to feel safe. Tank who hated The Samurai because he dropped Tank in the water when he tried to bathe him, so in revenge Tank attacked The Samurai every time he could.

"I'm going to go see Tank!" Waving off his friend's words of confusion, he followed the mother cat, and found himself at his friend's house... and there. He was with Tank, who had been wandering around with his toy, crying. Looking for his daddy, wondering when his daddy would come home, and take him home. Tank, who was happy to see daddy again, but didn't understand why daddy couldn't pick him up. Force Recon cried and apologized to his cat, his son, who he loved so much.

"Come with me, you two. This way." The wolf spoke again, feminine and very Irish. The Spartan and The Samurai looked at each other and then followed the wolf. Fearful of what was to come.

They felt lightheaded, and found themselves in the backseat of The Badass Brit, who was crying. Crying over them.

The Viking attempted to follow his friends, but was stopped by that claw like hand, his eyes looked up at the monster, the thing of nightmares and folk tales. "No, Come. This way." That voice that seemed to double, with the second voice quieter yet so familiar.

He followed, and his world flipped and he felt like he was falling and being shaken at the same time. He found himself in a small parking lot, behind a building, at night. He could see a car before him, he knew that car, he knew the sound of someone crying. The car door opened, and The Artist stepped out. Looking exhausted and frumpy, from work, his hat on their head. Their eyes red and puffy. His heart broke. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Communication came in dreams, and moved objects, words and thoughts that would cause so many to declare them mad, rather then recognize the truth of what was happening. 

As events unfolded, and truths where more confusing then lies. As dead men, apologized. Declaring their love, and their pain. "I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard to get back to you." The Viking in tears. The Spartan broke as did The Samurai, doing the same. They all tried so hard to make it home, they all wanted to make it home.

Their deaths where not as cut and dry as it was assumed. Truths hidden and lies littered everywhere. Meant one very pissed off Artist.

"Vengeance then" The Artist snarled, their friend.. that beast. The Wendigo clicked. The Wendigo had a beloved, that Wolf with the Irish tongue. She agreed with him, as did her friend, the Badass Brit.

Those four heads, children of both. Young beasts they where, named after the nicknames of the four who had fallen. Each created to protect, and gift a form of immortality to the men, they represent. Their tasks cannot be changed or altered, their meaning is set in time and space. 

A curse placed on them, to ensure their safety. Not just theirs, but the lives of The Artist and The Badass Brit. If the Cursed Crystal Wendigos are destroyed before 50 years have passed, starting on July 5th 2019, if The Artist and / or The Badass Brit are killed before 50 years have passed. These children shall unleash their vengeance on those responsible for those deaths, they shall have no mercy nor kindness for what they shall do. For the world is an unkind place. A curse, locked in place by the four men who held those names. But curses can be wishes, and they all hold wishes as well. Wishes spoken and whispered in love.

"However, there is an innocent that needs protected." The Artist spoke of a small child, a baby, perhaps a toddler by the time this has come into existence. "Protect the child of the women who lies. Protect that young one at all costs. Be there for that child, when they cry and need a friend. Be their protector and be what you need to be." Fortuna, the bunny. Her task is locked in hopes of keeping one safe. One who is too young to understand what has happened, or why The Artist would wish for them to be safe.

The four who died, had made a promise. They had planned to attend Anthrocon 2019. They had been looking forward to it, but death took them instead, and left behind a Badass Brit, and The Artist.

So now in grief and loss, The Artist places those four wendigos up, to be seen by so many. To scream into the world -they where real, they where important, they are loved and missed so much.- The Badass Brit tries so hard to be strong, but The Viking was like a Big Brother to her, while The Spartan and The Samurai where beloveds, and Force Recon was a treasured friend.

The Artist mourns The Viking and The Samurai, mourns The Spartan and Force Recon. 

The Artist sets down The Room You Will Never See, a love letter to their Viking. 

The Artist is me. 

Goodbye is never easy, so instead we just say -next time, next time. I love you.-

I love you, I miss you. My Viking, so for you... I give you this. You wanted me to paint your walls, create something for you, since you loved my work so much. And yes, you would have paid me for my work, which still surprises me. 

For you, I give you The Room You Will Never see.


End file.
